


A Russian, Two Spies, and an Elephant

by dragonnan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 2 years, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brutality, Cruelty, Gen, Inspired by Fanfiction, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Pain, Sherlock on a Mission, Sherlock's time away, Swearing, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2020-08-19 21:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20216305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonnan/pseuds/dragonnan
Summary: As Mycroft had been so fond of saying, “There is no such thing as a 'simple op'. If there were, we would hardly need agents to carry them out as the garden variety patrol officer would readily serve.” The statement, to Sherlock's consternation, too often proved entirely true. Certainly a clandestine trip through Bulgaria, transporting several crates of illegal pharmaceuticals, drifted well away from “simple” and edged into “complicated” territory.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sgam76](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgam76/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Scheherezade](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5565991) by [sgam76](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgam76/pseuds/sgam76). 

> The following story is inspired by sgam76's amazing Scheherezade series and also has a "blink and you'll miss it" nod to her story, Redemption. While this was written to fit within the Scheherezade universe, it is an unofficial work and should be considered a "fanfic of a fanfic".
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

**Near Bistrishko Branishte; approx. 1 hour outside of Sofia, Bulgaria**

_ **December, 2011 ** _

As Mycroft had been so fond of saying, “There is no such thing as a 'simple op'. If there were, we would hardly need agents to carry them out as the garden variety patrol officer would readily serve.” The statement, to Sherlock's consternation, too often proved entirely true. Certainly a clandestine trip through Bulgaria, transporting several crates of illegal pharmaceuticals, drifted well away from “simple” and edged into “complicated” territory. However, within the greater scope of his mission, Sherlock could label this, at least marginally, average.

The recipient of said pharmaceuticals was Valery Kulikov; who was currently in exile after an unfortunate incident involving both the wife and sister of a Croatian emissary. That incident, alone, while embarrassing, would not have been enough to send him from his homeland. However, getting caught by the emissary, resulting in a physical clash that had ultimately hospitalized the emissary with near fatal injuries, certainly had been grounds for punitive action. Had Kulikov been of lower rank and had his father not been highly placed within the Kremlin's inner circle it is likely he'd have been taken to a desolate location, far from observing eyes, and quietly shot. Enough money and influence, it would seem, could buy a stay of execution for nearly any offense.

The battered pea green cargo truck had both a shortage of legroom as well as a dearth of reasonable suspension. Sherlock did his best to stretch his limbs within the confines of his allotted space and shot envious looks towards the wealth of free movement available to his traveling companion. Anthea, being of average stature, could nigh curl on her side for a kip if she were willing to pillow her head on the driver's lap – of which the driver, for all of his appreciative glances, would likely have been amiable.

Fresh, heavy snow overlay deep ruts and made for a good deal of swallowed cursing as their driver made no attempt to slow their passage over the caverns of ice and mud. Sherlock genuinely feared for their cargo; a concern that was clearly not shared by Radko as he launched into a tune that was loud, off-tune, and aggressively Pop. About the only thing positive that could be said for their journey was that it was nearing an end.

Twelve days previously, Sherlock had been in Romania after spending 3 weeks infiltrating one of Moriarty's installations in Petroșani. It had cost him two broken fingers and a small knife wound along his ribs as well as nearly being buried in one of the city's coal mines; several of which Moriarty had converted into a smuggling hub. He'd come off comparatively unscathed, all things considered. His fingers would need to remain strapped for another two weeks; compromising the use of his right hand. However, the current assignment was not meant to be terribly complex nor taxing. A cog in the machine and a small one, at that. In fact, he'd been fully prepared to tackle it alone; as he'd been forced to do after his original partner had been... well, suffice to say he was unavailable. So, he'd been unprepared to enter his temporary M16 flat to find Anthea waiting for him on the couch casually flipping through crap telly. Protestations to the side he'd been pleased as well as, unexpectedly, relieved to find she would be accompanying him on the next leg. Their cover was simple enough; drug runners working for the large facility in Romania who had barely escaped the destruction of the mine. It had the benefit of being partially true and with the size of the workforce it was almost laughable the ease with which they were able to insert themselves within the delivery network. Anthea was an unknown; Sherlock was fairly certain that even Moriarty had never met her. As for Sherlock, he'd made a few subtle changes to his appearance; hair trimmed, dyed a dark chestnut, and slicked back straight from his scalp with heavy product to control the natural curl. He'd also gone with his darkest contacts; making his eyes nearly black and, admittedly, somewhat ominous. The job itself was likewise simple, on the face of it. Valery Kulikov was one of many facilitators of the high grade illicit drugs formerly being produced by the coal mines in Petroșani. While not a big player in Moriarty's web, he happened to be a known associate of someone significantly higher on the importance list; Sebastian Moran. Sherlock had lost track of Moran some months previously; which had resulted in grievous injury on his part and weeks of recovery.

Thick tyres heaved over the final hill to reveal the small complex of rough buildings ahead. It was a dichotomy to hop down from the truck and approach the white washed wood structures that resembled nothing so much as a homey ski lodge. There were several men in heavy white parkas carrying automatic weapons but none of them appeared to be on alert and a few were gathered near one of the outbuildings smoking and chatting together. The only true disruption to the odd peace was the uproar of barking dogs coming from a large fenced run outside the main building. The dogs were all of a similar breed; large, heavy, thick-coated, and somewhat resembling mastiffs.

“Caucasian Ovcharka! Beautiful, eh?” A voice shouted from the doorway of the main building. Valery Kulikov was not a large man; standing only around 5'9”. However he was at least 18 stone; much of it carried in his belly. At his side was a massive, jet black dog that appeared none too pleased at their arrival; lips pulled slightly away from its teeth and its warning growl audible even from several meters. Kulikov thumped the dog happily on its shoulders though, Sherlock was relieved to note, he kept a strong grip on the chain leash attached to the beast's collar. “This is Zuby! Don't worry; he only bites SVR pigs.” His laugh shook his form. Anthea moved to stand alongside Sherlock; her manner shifting slightly in the presence of their target.

“Oh, he's absolutely lovely! You know, I've always adored dogs; my father raised wolfhounds when I was a child...”

While she engaged Kulikov, Sherlock followed the driver, as well as six of Kulikov's men, to the back of the truck to supervise the unloading of the shipment. With his injured fingers he was unable to help with the crates. However, he made certain to seemingly look over each one carefully to check for damage while surreptitiously removing a small canvass bag from one of the crates and easing it into a dark corner in the brief moments he was unobserved. By the time the crates had been moved to the storage shed, Kulikov and Anthea had progressed into the main complex. Sherlock was left on his own to follow after; reinforcing the lax manner of the facility.

Stripping his gloves as he entered, he was washed in the warm scent of the building. It stank of something wild – an animal stench not unlike a slaughterhouse though nowhere near as potent. Beneath that raw beast odor were clashing notes of scented candles that did nothing to mask the retch and, in fact, created a nauseating layer of artificial vanilla and wax. Well used to hiding his reactions, Sherlock endured it without so much as a twitch of his nose.

The men standing guard just inside the doors were of a much different manner than those lingering outside. Stone-faced, alert, they stood with their legs spaced wide and rifles held across their chests at an angle. Large, high calibre pistols sat in holsters at their hips and long knives were strapped mid-thigh with small blades near the ankle. No doubt there were more weapons out of sight.

No need for a guide as the sound of Kulikov's laughter led him to a dining room just off from a den filled with dozens of animal mounts; primarily boars and stags, though a massive elk held pride of place above an equally massive fireplace. Passing through the overt celebration of the hunt, Sherlock found Anthea sitting at the far end of a long table; on the corner near Kulikov's right side. The left side of the man was taken up by his massive dog; which gave a warning wuff as Sherlock entered; stopping all movement as the dog eyed him with a lethal stillness.

Kulikov muttered something fierce to the animal and jerked hard on its leash; though the dog didn't relax so much as a toe.

“Come! Come and sit! Zuby won't harm you. He's mostly all bark. Very little bite unless I tell him,” he chortled in robust Bulgarian. Dubious as to Kulikov's ability to hold back 100 kilos of furious death were Zuby inclined towards mauling, Sherlock, nonetheless, took the seat to Anthea's right.

“Alena was telling me of your troubles at the Caves.” As the man spoke, a young woman approached the table; no more than fourteen or fifteen. She had a platter of bread and meat in her hands which she set before Kulikov. She eyed the dog warily and flinched when it growled. Sherlock noted the long look that Anthea gave the girl and, beneath the table, rested his fingertips against her arm for just a brief moment. Without acknowledging the contact, Anthea turned back to Kulikov and smiled as the girl left just as silently as she'd entered. “Oh, it was dreadful!” She groaned. “William was nearly crushed when all that stone came loose! He's lucky to be alive!”

While Sherlock had wanted to keep Kulikov in the dark as to the mine collapse, ultimately he and Anthea had both agreed that it wasn't plausible. Word was bound to get out and they, as yet, had no firm timetable as to how long it would take to learn about Moran; if Kulikov were even in possession of the assassin's current whereabouts.

Sherlock allowed a grimace to curl his lip. “Luck had nothing to do with it.”

Grinning, Kulikov tore open the large roasted carcass; cracking apart joints and setting the greasy meat before him directly on the table. “You're a survivor. Like me.” After claiming his portion, he pushed the platter towards Sherlock. “Eat. Drink. Afterwards we will inspect this shipment, yes?” Not waiting for a response, he dangled what appeared to be a hunk of wild boar above Zuby; the dog snapping the prize while it was still in Kulikov's hand and causing the man to jerk back quickly or risk losing flesh.

The girl returned, then, holding a carafe of something poisonous yellow, vile, and with a smell not unlike lemon furniture polish. In her other hand she precariously balanced a stack of plates and cups. Barely had she set it down before Kulikov reached out and slapped her across the cheek. “Bliad’! I had to put my food on the table like a dog!”

Now it was Sherlock who had to be restrained; though he'd only gone as far as to tense his muscles. The girl held her cheek and snuffled; her sleeve slipping back and revealing a badly scarred forearm. Kulikov pointed towards it with a sharp laugh.

“Bitch got too close to Zuby when he was eating. Learned her lesson, eh?” The girl cowered when he reached out, once more – but this time he merely patted her head. “Go on with you! Clean the kitchen, feed the dogs, just stop hovering! You make my guests nervous!” He proceeded to fill their cups; hefting the carafe and grinning. “Limonnaya Vodka! You can only buy it in Russia.” He winked. “I get it delivered special.”

Neither one of them replied but Kulikov merely tossed back his vodka; seemingly oblivious to their silence. Picking at his bread, Sherlock was willing to sit back and allow Anthea to engage the big man with conversation about random topics, mostly light flirting. If this man had any kinship to Moran it was tenuous at best. Sherlock was already reconsidering the reliability of the sources that had suggested a tighter connection when there was a commotion outside.

Zuby stiffened; his broad head twisting towards the open door before he bellowed furiously – the fur on his back standing on end as he abruptly lunged; nearly wrenching Kulikov's shoulder's from the socket and shoving the table several inches to the side. The man cursed furiously in Russian; just managing to keep the animal from tearing the leash from his hands. Both Anthea and Sherlock stood as the cups of vodka rattled; one of them tipping its pungent contents across the rough surface.

Outside, the other dogs echoed with a similar ferocity; nearly drowning out the sound of an approaching vehicle. “Ty che, blyad! What the fuck is it now?!” Letting the dog practically drag him from the room, Kulikov spun at the last second; pointing towards the other two who had begun to follow. “Stay there. I'll be back as soon as I deal with this shit.”

The hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck were standing on end. Something felt wrong; very, very wrong. A glance towards Anthea revealed a shared emotion and she silently eased her hand to her pocket where her gun was tucked out of sight. There was a rustle at their back and Sherlock spun. The girl stood, just inside the door to what appeared to be the kitchen, clearly terrified. Anthea jerked her chin, speaking in hushed Bulgarian. “Go.” The girl, however, shook her head miserably.

“Go where?”

By then, however, they could hear Kulikov returning; his loud voice carrying through the outside wall.

“Villiam, Alena! Come! An old friend has come to call!” There was nothing for it but to leave the dining area and the mostly untouched meal. Kulikov could be heard extolling the glory of the hunt and the effort it had taken to track his prized bull elk through heavy snow. He turned as the two of them approached; grinning wide.

“I want to introduce you to someone; though I'd be surprised if you hadn't met since you both work at the same facility...”

Sherlock froze. He had expected Sebastian Moran; preparing himself for the fallout of that exposure. What he hadn't... couldn't have expected, was the slender man standing at Kulikov's shoulder.

“So it's William now, is it? And here I thought you were dead.”

Sherlock swallowed; keeping absolutely still. “Funny thing, Oleg; I'd thought the same of you.”

Oleg Sanchin. Drug runner, sadist, and the man whom Sherlock had last seen at the coal mines just before the structure had collapsed. And, up until that moment, he had believed Oleg had been buried under millions of tonnes of solid rock.

While the guards quietly disarmed and restrained Anthea, Oleg grinned; walking into Sherlock's space; close enough that his breath filled the air between them with the sharp smell of the ginger he liked to chew.

“Oh, you and I? We are going to have a lot of fun.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had wanted to post this chapter earlier but this past week was unexpectedly busy. Good for my bank account but decidedly not good for writing. As it is, I forced myself to stay up until 7am last night to get the bulk of this chapter written. I hope you enjoy!

It had been twenty minutes since he and Anthea had been separated.

Lacking a proper dungeon, barred room, or even a cellar, Sherlock had been marched to one of the outbuildings, stripped of his coat, jumper, and boots, and manacled to the chainlink within one of the unused dog kennels. If there was any positive note to glean from his circumstance it was that at least the kennel was one kept indoors; small enough mercy, granted. The building was warmed only with an ancient space heater that had as much chance of burning the building down around their ears as heating it. His narrow frame was not tolerant of prolonged cold at the best of times and, even with indirect exposure to the worsening conditions, hypothermia was in his near future.

Hard shivering trembled through the length of his frame and made the links of the fence clink. A minor boon that the dogs did not share the enclosure; clearly enjoying the thickening snowfall. Apparently the temperature was not too cold for beast. The same could not be said for man, unfortunately.

By the time heavy steps clomped back through the snow towards his slipshod cell, his teeth were chattering violently.

“Are you cold, yet, súka?”

Taking short breaths, Sherlock tipped his chin as Oleg approached; the man clapping his hands together before blowing on his fingers. “Too frozen to talk? Eh, motherfucker?”

His hand lashed out and struck Sherlock across his jaw hard enough to snap his head to the right and bloom pain through his icy cheek. A moment later the iron taste of blood trickled along the back of his teeth. Leaning forward he spat a string of red on the stained concrete.

Oleg pulled a stiletto from the sheathe on his hip and Sherlock stiffened. Oleg, though, only laughed. “No, súka, I'm not going to kill you. Not just yet. I want to play with you first, just a bit.” Digging something from an inside pocket, he produced a large cigar and used the tapered blade to trim the end. Then, sheathing the knife, he next brought out a small box of matches and struck one against the side; using the flame to light his smoke. The sharp smells of tobacco and sulphur were quite pleasant and nearly overtook the ammonia stench of unwashed kennels. They also churned memories of stealing that first, illicit cigarette, from Mycroft's secret stash on one of his brother's visits home from Cambridge. It had been clear Mycroft hadn't realized Sherlock had known about his new habit else he'd have hidden the smokes better than he had. There was a twist of sharp discomfort – recognizing this first foray into what would grow to become a crippling addiction. At the time he'd merely taken a dark amusement in getting away with something so “grown up”; paying for it later once that rush of nicotine had turned into a hot burble of nausea that had left him hacking in the woods for nearly an hour. He blinked and forced the memories away from his immediate consciousness.

Blunt fingers tapped at his forearm – where scars were still visible. “Like to sample the product? You're one of those, yes? You know, your kind? They don't last long.” Oleg grinned; the cigar between his teeth. “Get yourself into all sorts of trouble.” Turning, suddenly, he walked to the far corner of the shed where several crates had been stacked. Familiar crates. Hefting a prise bar from where it had been leaning against the wall, he wedged it beneath the lid of the topmost crate and gave a hard downward shove – the nails giving with a shriek. Pawing through the layer of coffee beans, he grunted in success and lifted out a plastic wrapped bundle. Slicing through the plastic with his long knife, he freed the contents before jabbing the tip of the blade through the canted crate lid.

“As you likely know, we only deal in top grade shit, here. Our customers depend upon quality product so you should count yourself lucky.”

“Luck is relative from where I'm standing.”

Oleg brayed rough laughter. “Ah, he speaks at last!” He beamed; returning to Sherlock's side. Sherlock curled his toes against the ground but tamped down any further signs of agitation. Ignoring him, Oleg unwrapped the prize he'd liberated from the crate; plastic falling away to reveal a bundle of single use syringes. Shoving most in his pockets, he kept out a single syringe; setting aside his cigar before using his teeth to pull the cap from the needle and spitting the bit of plastic.

“This one is my favorite.” He wobbled the needle between two fingers. “Spidy. You know this one?”

Sherlock pressed his lips tight. Yes, he knew that one. Spidy, by its Russian street name. The pharmaceutical designation was amphetamine; or, as it was more commonly known; Adderall. It was a drug with which he had a rather unfortunate bit of history.

It had happened while he'd been at Harrow. As a joke, someone (he'd long suspected Sebastian Wilkes), had slipped finely ground Adderall tablets into his coffee just before morning classes. Given his preference for heavily sugared caffeine, the sweetened drug had been easily overlooked. Twenty minutes into Latin, Sherlock had had one of the worst meltdowns since that disastrous audition at Westminster. Mummy and Father had been called and had arrived within the hour. However, they hadn't been alone; bringing along, to his endless humiliation, Mycroft. Arguing that he hadn't purposefully taken something, because he knew better than to overuse stimulants, had hardly earned him any points with the administration. He'd been a breath away from expulsion before the intervention of some “higher power” had spoken on his behalf. How much money exchanged hands he couldn't know nor had he truly cared. His parents weren't ones to sink to bribery but certainly Mycroft, in his fledgling status as a 'minor government official', would have enjoyed throwing his considerable weight towards the issue of his little brother's ongoing education just to watch the peons dance.

“Oh, going quiet again. But, then, you weren't much for chatting the last time we'd met, either. Of course, you were also running for your life like a scared rabbit.” Sticking the barrel of the syringe between his teeth, Oleg produced a length of rubber tubing and made it tight around Sherlock's upper arm before taking hold of the syringe, once more, and feeling the inside of Sherlock's elbow for a vein. “Not running now, though, eh?”

The drug hit his blood and he was on fire. It roared in a surge from feet to skull; racing heat up his spinal column and slamming into his brain like molten lightning. Everything was just so much! He shut his eyes against the input but found he had no control as sensation continued to pour inside; touch, scent, sound, taste; he realized he was screaming and bit his tongue when he clenched his teeth to stop up the sounds.

Cigar back between his teeth, Oleg's next pull brightened the tip a brilliant red. Smoke left his lungs in a long breath before he smiled. “You still look a bit cold, súka. Maybe we should do something to warm you up a bit, eh?” Grasping Sherlock's right hand, he bent his broken fingers back hard enough that the tendons strained. Sherlock grunted between his teeth but didn't make further sound. And then Oleg pressed the burning end of the cigar against the tip of his index finger. The pain was breathtaking and Sherlock couldn't swallow the scream that was forced from his lungs. Held long enough to sizzle, Oleg finally lifted it away; examining the blackened fingertip while Sherlock clenched his other hand into a fist and tried not to whimper.

In the twenty minutes that followed, Oleg singed three more fingers; Sherlock falling into a miserable state of drifting awareness from the pain and cold. He came back to himself with the maddening brush of hands running over his arms. He jerked violently. Oleg clucked his tongue and patted his bicep.

“Who did this to you? Workmanship such as this... he had great skill.” Sherlock didn't need to turn his head to know that Oleg was admiring the narrow pink scars left behind by Tarik Musa, former dealer from those wretched days of his youth and, more recently, one of Moriarty's enforcers. Pure stupid luck that they had crossed paths; with devastating consequence, both for Sherlock, and his former partner.

Ash flicked from the cigar in Oleg's fingers. “So who are you, really?”

Sherlock furiously tried to manage the tremors running through his hands. “I work for Sebastian Moran...”

The head of the cigar buried in the soft flesh of his inner elbow. Sherlock moaned and tried to curl. Oleg merely swatted down his knee before moving the blistering heat to his armpit. Head slamming back against the wire mesh, Sherlock ignored the hairs that caught in the crisscrossing mesh as his flingers grasped wildly at the empty air.

“You don't work for Moran. Moran wouldn't have a súka like you working for him.” He shoved the cigar into Sherlock's other elbow. “Me? I think you're SVR.” The cigar pushed into his other armpit.

“I'm... I'm not... Foreign Intelligence...” Sherlock was quite certain his head was about to explode. Sweat had beaded over his lip and slipped down his back. He couldn't stop his limbs from shaking; triggered by the combined effects of the amphetamine and the torture. His mind was racing at hyper speed and he screwed his eyes tight, once more, to block the visuals surging through his brain; _straw-bright-stone-red-cold-red-cigar-wood-ash-burns-it burns-IT BURNS-IT BURNS- _

Oleg wrapped fingers in his hair as he forced his head back up once more; slapping him until he opened his eyes. “Now, now; no time for a nap, súka. We have a great many things to discuss, you and I. After that, you and your pretty friend, can die.”

Sucking at the cigar to brighten the tip, he exhaled smoke and raised it towards Sherlock's opposite hand. “Now... let's start again. Who are you?”

Forty minutes and two cigars later, Oleg patted Sherlock on the cheek and walked out.

Anthea was still alive, of that he was certain, else they'd have taunted him with her body or with “trophies”. Whether or not any other harm had come to her he couldn't know and that was what ate at him as he hung there on burning wrists.

That first hour the cold had begun creeping down his limbs, inch by inch, stealing sensation but leaving a path of pain close to the bone. The burns throbbed hot and cold though it lessened as the hours multiplied and his extremities lost feeling to the chill. Twice he had to plant his feet to steady himself when his knees began to cave.

He'd been able to track time in the most base of fashions; by his own biological needs. He'd made use of a toilet just before they had left Sofia. The drive itself had taken a little over an hour. Having taken no additional fluids, since then, he'd estimated 3 hours had passed since he'd been left on his own. As it was, he was now feeling a rather persistent urgency.

Not many minutes after, the door squealed open, once again. The cold gusted against his back and he squirmed; still hyper sensitive and the light sensation of the hairs stirring against his neck was maddening.

Expecting a hearty greeting before torture was resumed, it took a number of seconds before he noted the light and stealthy tread. Acutely alert, he followed the path that moved through the dark; keeping to shadows until it stopped just beyond the dim light cast by the low watt bulb above. However, by now, he had ascertained his nighttime visitor as well as made note of something else... she wasn't alone.

Anthea, having determined that Sherlock was, in fact, a solitary occupant, slipped to his right side. “God... you look awful...”

Eyeing the swelling bruise on her left cheek and the crust of blood beneath her nose, Sherlock tipped his chin. “We can't all look as glamorous in torture chic.” Anthea smiled but the movement of her jaw was stiff.

Letting his attention shift to the small figure still mostly in shadow, Sherlock sighed. “You brought the girl. You know she will slow our movements.”

Scowling, Anthea felt in her pocket; producing a thick key after a few seconds of fumbling. “Her name is Petia and, yes, I brought her. I can't leave her here.” Complicated as the child's presence would make their escape, Sherlock couldn't fully disagree.

“So how did you manage your liberation?” Ordinarily he'd read the signs for himself but the pounding in his skull from the barrage of stimulus was a daunting challenge to face and he preferred keeping his eyes shut, for the moment.

“I had to do something really distasteful.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disgust as he squinted at her.

Anthea huffed and rolled her eyes. “Not that, you prune.” The latch gave with a rusty shriek and Anthea eased Sherlock's arm down against his side before going to the other manacle. “Apparently one of my guards was in to ladies panties.” She glanced back, towards her young companion, who had placed herself near the single window and appeared to be keeping watch. “Seems he's keen on wearing them; though how he'd imagine he'd stretch them over his sizable bum is anyone's guess.”

Sherlock managed a pained laugh as the second restraint opened with just as much resistance as the first. “Of course, while he was occupied, I took a moment to crack his head with the bucket they'd left for my toilet.” Wedging a shoulder beneath his arm, Anthea got him up on his feet with only a little wobble. It was when he attempted to stand alone that things went sideways and she was forced to lunge for him.

“Well this isn't going to work,” she muttered.

“Which part; the one where we shoot our way out of here in a blaze of glory or the one where we alert my brother than '_things have gone poorly_'.” He injected enough sarcasm to imply the air quotes without needing to strain his injured fingers.

“Oh, you are a darling when you're in pain.”

Sherlock glared but kept additional grousing to himself. Pushing Anthea's hands away, he braced himself against the wall; shuffling to a darkened corner to deal with a somewhat pressing need. Of course, it was then that he was brought to a halt by a distressing aspect to his injuries. He could feel the blood warming his cheeks when he realized what this would require. Nothing for it, however, and they could not afford the time for waffling.

“Anthea? I... I need...”

Tactful; intuitive; she did not ask that he explain further. Stoic, as a nurse, she assisted without a word. Afterward, it was an unspoken acknowledgement that they would not dwell on this and would simply move forward.

By this point the girl, Petia, had found Sherlock's discarded clothing. Anthea knelt to help him with his boots while Sherlock winced and held his breath and forced throbbing limbs through the sleeves of his jumper; the texture like steel wool against his overly sensitive skin. When it came to his gloves, however, Sherlock... couldn't. Simply curling his hands was savage.

“Come on. There's a nearby shed where they store quad bikes and a few sledges.” With Anthea leading they cautiously stepped out into the yard.

The few lights outside the cluster of buildings did little to cut through the combined dark and heavy snowfall. The guards who'd been standing a somewhat dubious watch, earlier, were even less attentive now – huddled around a large fire burning in a metal bin.

The three of them pressed close to the shed. Even with the deadening effect of the snow, Sherlock kept his voice pitched soft.

“Take Petia to find us a suitable transport. There's something I need to do.”

“Hey...” Hissed only slightly above a whisper, Anthea was forced to remain behind as Sherlock melted from sight.

By the time he returned; reappearing like a ghost through the obscuring flakes, Anthea had located a large quad that could handle all three of them so long as they didn't mind pressing tight together on the long seat.

Stowing his retrieved bag in one of the small compartments attached to the side of the vehicle, Sherlock climbed aboard behind the other two. He'd have preferred they place it in neutral and push it into the forest before turning the key but with the deepening snow it would be impossible to shift it even with all three of them at peak strength. As it was, Sherlock was fading and it would be enough to hang on with his arms bracketing the two women.

The roar of the turning engine brought an immediate response – forcing Sherlock to reevaluate the lazy guards who, rather than shouting and looking about, turned as a unit and began firing towards the storage shed.

“Shit! Hang on!” Anthea gunned the accelerator and they shot out of the shed and into the yard. While their speed and conditions helped, somewhat, they were also, now, fully exposed to the guards; who focused their fire on their fleeing prisoners.

Petia shrieked as several bullets found their mark in the body of the quad; dull thunks piercing through the metal and barely missing flesh. Then Sherlock hissed as a bullet seared across his shoulder. A bare second later, Anthea shouted and the quad banked violently to the right – nearly dumping them into a snowbank before she managed to force it back on track. Several more bullets followed but by this point they had turned into the trees and were out of sight. It would not take long for the guards to follow so Anthea turned again, and then a third time; taking them deep into the trees before slowing their flight. Petia, already frantic, whimpered at the slowing pace.

“They'll catch us! Go faster!”

Shaking her head, Anthea guided the vehicle down along an old animal trail. “The faster we go, the louder we are. We aren't going to be able to get far so our best course is concealment.”

By now, Sherlock had smelled the gas; a bullet had impacted the tank and it was spilling steadily. By his estimation they had about five minutes before the engine died. However, there was another problem. Anthea had been shot. Sherlock couldn't tell how badly but he had seen the red stain on her left thigh. They needed to get somewhere safe to tend to her wound.

Three minutes on, Anthea spotted what she'd been looking for. Twenty feet off the trail was a tangled cluster of dead branches from a deadfall. Slowing the quad even further, Anthea was able to bring them to within two yards of the downed tree. Sherlock peeled his frozen hands away and slid to the ground; turning immediately to the storage compartment and shifting up the lid by wedging his wrist beneath the latch. Meanwhile Anthea and Petia had delved into the compartment on the opposite side; Anthea offering a strained grin at Sherlock's interested look as she produced several bundles from inside. “You weren't the only one to plan ahead. While you were off fetching your emergency supplies I thought it prudent to pack a few things, myself.”

Those “things” turned out to be several sleeping bags, an electric lamp and spare torches, and, perhaps the one item to give Sherlock hope they could survive until morning, a small tent packed tightly within a nylon bag.

Petia spoke before Sherlock could voice the question. “They keep these supplies in the shed along with the quad bikes. Valery likes to take many hunting trips and sometimes will stay away many days.” She delved, once more, into the open compartment. “He also keeps one of these with every quad bike.” She held out the bundle and Sherlock's face widened into a grin.

“Oh... that is perfection.” For in Petia's hands was a white and grey camouflage tarp.

Anthea had been forced to remain with the quad while Sherlock (hands proving to be a significant hindrance) and Petia had set up the tent on the far side of the deadfall; out of sight of the trail. Twice they'd heard the roar of quad bikes coming quite close and had hunched silently until the threat had passed.

Finally, the tent was up and the floor strewn with a thick layer of pine boughs and covered with another tarp. Lacking any sort of bed, Sherlock helped Anthea to the ground with one of her hands wrapped around his arm. Petia had set to work creating a small fire; scooping out a hollow with one of the collapsable metal camp cups included amongst the survival supplies. The quad bike had been covered by the camo tarp and the steadily falling snow would add a further layer of concealment.

While Petia tended the fire, Anthea had utilized the hunting knife from Sherlock's pack to cut into her thick, white, snow pants. The bullet wound... wasn't pretty. However it could have been far worse. The bullet had left a small hole, perfectly round, just slightly off center; enough that it had likely saved her from a broken femur. The bleeding was sluggish and the flesh around the wound was pink and somewhat swollen.

As always, faced with significant injuries, Sherlock felt utterly at sea. “What do we do? Do we take the bullet out?”

Anthea grinned, winced, and shook her head. “You've been watching too much telly. Have you got pain medication in that pack of yours?”

Sherlock laid out the contents of his kit; three prefilled plastic syringes of antibiotics, a tube of burn ointment (which Anthea insisted he apply immediately), several rolls of gauze, alcohol wipes, iodine, and, to Anthea's relief, a bottle of prescription strength paracetamol. She took those first; though Sherlock refused any (“We can't both sleep and it isn't as though you can move about at any rate.”). She'd had to, reluctantly, agree. While waiting for the medication to begin to take effect, Anthea had taped a thick gauze pad over the wound and had Sherlock prop up her leg on a small log Petia had rolled inside. She'd then demanded Sherlock allow her to tend his injuries as best as she was able. Reapplying salve to his fingers, she'd wrapped them lightly in gauze. After this, she'd helped him ease off his coat and had slit the shoulder of his jumper to better access the bullet graze. It was still bleeding, a bit, but had been minor so she'd taped it up with gauze and then helped him don his coat, once more.

By this point the medication was starting to make her sleepy. Petia had joined them after boiling snow in one of the spare cups and making a passable coffee from a tiny can of instant. She'd discovered, upon exploring the final storage container, that it was stocked with a supply of non-perishable food stuffs. No honey but there'd been a box of sugar cubes along with salt, jerky, some rocky biscuits comparable to hardtack, tinned meat, sardines, and powdered milk. Petia had peeled the mylar from the biscuits and passed them around before taking a bite.

Ignoring his portion, Sherlock focused, instead, on the most important item from his pack. A burner phone. In a matter of minutes the call had gone through and a team had been dispatched. Estimated arrival time, between eight to ten hours.

There was nothing left, then, but to wait and hope they weren't discovered before Mycroft's people could reach them.

The three of them wrapped themselves in sleeping bags; Sherlock closest to the zippered door with one ear attentive towards any sign that they'd been discovered. As the time pressed on, however, and in spite of forgoing pain medication, he could feel himself drifting – more than once blinking back to alertness. Anthea had slept, a bit, but was once again awake and nibbling at one of the hard biscuits. Petia was curled at her side and deeply under.

“Talk.”

She startled; blinking at him through the low light of the lamp. “You know, I'm arguably the more injured party; I believe you should be the one entertaining me.” At his unblinking stare, however, she groaned and capitulated. “Fine, you win. Talk about what?”

Sherlock cast about for a topic. “Did your father really raised wolf hounds?”

Anthea grinned. “No. More like basset hounds. Dad had some grand scheme of selling the pups, one of his many grand schemes, mind. So he brought home a male and female, sweet as could be, the both of them. Eventually nature took its course and our little household suddenly had five new squealing members. That was when things took a wee turn. You would have thought Dad had birthed them, himself, the way he got on. Mum tried for weeks, once they were old enough, to have Dad follow through with trying to sell them but he wouldn't hear of it; wouldn't even run an advert in the paper. Mum went spare but in the end she was just as smitten as the rest of us so there we were. Every evening, right at the dinner hour, seven basset hounds would start howling like it was an air raid; neighbors bloody hated us. Couldn't tell you how many times the Constable was out to talk to Dad about 'The Menace', as he called them. Course he was as weak as the rest of us and wasn't long before he fell for one of the black and tan females. Begged Dad for her and Dad finally gave in; though you'd think he was giving away a child. Granted that probably would have been easier for him,” she smirked. “Being who you are I'm sure you know how the rest of this story goes.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but a smile was teasing at the corner of his lips. “Your father ended up giving away all of the puppies to your various neighbors who came to call.”

Anthea laughed. “Never sold a single one but we also never caught fire for the two bassets remaining no matter how much they howled cause now the whole neighborhood was howling.”

They both of them were laughing at the end of it.

After this, Anthea insisted, first, on another cup of 'snow coffee', which Sherlock was willing to provide as he also needed another cup as well as to replenish the fire. Then, after they were both settled with their cups, Anthea took a sip and smiled. “Alright then; your turn.”

“My turn?” Eyebrow lifted, hands awkwardly wrapped around his cup, Sherlock shifted in a wasted effort to find more comfortable seating on the lumpy branches beneath him. Breathing an inhale of pine, he thought, only for a moment, before settling on just the right story.

“Very well. Let me tell you the story about The Elephant in the Room.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note - the story of the "Elephant" is posted in John's blog shortly before his wedding. However, there is nothing to indicate that it actually happened at that time. I will be taking some creative liberties regarding the date since there is a bit of play in that regard.


	3. Chapter 3

**London**

_ **July, 2010** _

_Popularity may have paid the bills but it had also, exponentially, increased their street worth among the dullards as well. Far more cheating husbands, missing pets, and stolen necklaces had lumbered into his sitting room, drank his tea, and occupied the time he could have been putting towards far more entertaining pursuits (clipping Mummy's toenails came to mind). And, yet, it was in the midst of his mental hair pulling that one of the most interesting cases he'd ever encounter would fall into his lap. Quiet literally, in fact; the gentleman of not inconsiderable girth had nearly crushed him during an ill timed dead faint before he'd managed to present his story for consideration. John's supply of smelling salts had done their work; rousing the man long enough for him to roll to the floor and off the consulting detective he'd nigh been smothering. Sherlock's life had been spared for one more day. Mycroft would be so pleased._

_Their client, one Bartlett James Dale was utterly convinced his village was being haunted by a Banshee._

“_Banshee? Are you serious? As in wailing ghost woman?” John blinked at their client in that courteous and accommodating manner that he tended to offer his endless ailing patients. Sherlock, for his part, was considering whether or not to use the fireplace poker to send this one on his way._

“_Nah, but, see; look, here...” Mr. Dale freed his mobile and tapped the screen until he'd called up a recording. Shaky footage primarily of trees with a few spots of bright lights; street lamps, by the look. It was nighttime and everything had that pixelated greenish cast. Then, after a moment, a building rumble started somewhere off screen; escalating to a screeching roar._

_John blinked while Sherlock snatched the mobile – dialing up the sound as high as it could go and starting it over from the beginning._

“_Train? Maybe?”_

_Sherlock shook his head. “Nope.”_

“_Trains only run until about 4pm. Couldn't have been.” Mr. Dale added while Sherlock held the mobile close to his ear. He could still hear John's muttered reply, “Yes, of course, Banshee is a far more likely culprit.”_

_Twice more Sherlock listened through the recording before sending a copy to his own phone and handing back the borrowed mobile. “Very well. We'll take your case.” Certainly he hadn't purposely accepted just as John had a mouthful of tea; though he did enjoy the resultant choking sputter._

_Maybe a little bit on purpose._

“_We're taking the case- this case?”_

_Sherlock grinned. “Of course we are! Come along, John; we're going ghost hunting!”_

_'Ghost **busting**', John had later insisted; though Sherlock had argued syntax until John had ultimately thrown in the towel and stopped up his prattle about gooey green poltergeists with an appetite for take away and improbable marshmallow behemoths._

_Two hours by car meant they'd opted to take John's rarely used Audi rather than a cab; not that Sherlock would have cared but John always whinged about the fare for any distance over 8 kilometers._

_Brockley parish had much in common with the village near Sherlock's childhood home in Surrey. Sedate, pedestrian, **boring**. The people wandering its streets and shopping in its shops could have been lifted directly from the streets he'd spent his formative years avoiding. The very first stop, of course, was the Lodge. John had booked two rooms across the hallway from one another with decor Sherlock's long dead grand-mère Vernet would have adored. Lace, floral wallpaper, he itched to start the investigation just to escape the scent of cinnamon potpourri. _

_Their first stop was the nearest pub. Not for a pint, however, but for a chat. Timing was critical; early enough in the day that most of the stools were empty, meaning the woman behind the bar was more willing to accommodate a couple of out of town guests. Sherlock had pulled together the persona of a 'charming if slightly naive young gent' which typically worked a treat on women. John had only glanced worriedly at him a couple times but a well placed kick to the shin had brought him onboard._

_Jennifer (call me Jen, love) had been eager to regale them about the Banshee. “There's a petition to make her an official tourist attraction, you know. Proper Loch Ness, if the committee has their way.”_

_The locals had all reported similar stories; wails, groans, and a few times had claimed the earth had shaken beneath them and there had even been reports of cracks opening up in the walls of some of the buildings. John had, of course, latched onto that last one._

“_Earthquakes, perhaps? Would explain everything, actually. Groaning, shaking, any other odd sounds. I mean, it isn't unheard of.”_

_Sherlock hummed as they walked, eyes primarily focused on his mobile while John had sunk his teeth into his pet theory._

“_Maybe get a seismologist down here. Could be there's an undiscovered fault line nearby. And if the shaking has been going on as frequently as they say, it might mean a larger earthquake is on the way. I mean, who knows how bad it could get? Especially if they're already getting cracks in the buildings...” _

“_It isn't an earthquake.”_

_John deflated; though he wasn't yet ready to give up the fight. “How can you know that? For certain, I mean? You've no proof; we both saw the same evidence. Is it really so hard to believe an earthquake is responsible? I mean, what else could cause everything they've described?”_

_Sherlock grinned. “What else, indeed?” _

_They'd made several more stops around the town; speaking with everyone from the local florist to the woman selling papers. No constable to speak of but there was also little to no crime save the occasional drunk. By early evening, however, John demanded a stop to eat. Sherlock allowed himself to be dragged back into the same pub where they'd started their investigation. Apparently they had the best fish and chips in the area. John had ordered for them both; setting to with a large platter of golden brown cod and a pint of dark stout. Sherlock, while insisting he wasn't hungry, had found himself working his way through the small mountain of chips while eyeing the other patrons. Realizing what he was doing, he dropped the half wedge of potato in his fingers while John grinned at him from his side of the table._

_After dinner they'd both agreed to go back to the Lodge for a few hours. Like most small villages people tended to retreat indoors once the sun sank behind the trees. It was mind numbing._

_While John flipped through stations on the telly, Sherlock settled into the chair farthest away from the fragrant bowl of dried flower petals and steepled his fingers._

_It was a few minutes before midnight that Sherlock rested a soft hand on John's shoulder to ease him awake – the care not enough to prevent the brief adrenalin surge when John startled and grasped at the chair arms. A panting breath and an upward glance had him rolling his eyes before rubbing them with his palms._

“_God... Well that did wonders for my back.”_

_Sherlock, already in his coat and checking his watch, scowled as John insisted on using the loo before they made their way into the darkened village._

_The car too noticeable on the empty streets, they kept to walking paths where the shadows were deep. From his numerous interviews, earlier, Sherlock had narrowed the location of the mystery sounds to a single block of flats on Ryder Lane._

_Fifteen minutes by foot brought them to the wide swath of pavement leading on to the estate where Ryder Flats was located; cream stucco with ornate furnishings that stood apart from the style dominating the rest of Brockley. _

“_Upscale lot, isn't it. Wonder who lives here, then?”_

_After a circuit around the row of flats, Sherlock knelt near the base of the structure – long fingers poking at the broken seam crawling up right through the foundation. John knelt alongside him; and, from his clearing throat, a question was obviously in the making. However, he'd gone no farther than to exhale when the scuffling of feet, behind them, had them both rising._

“_Oi, what do you two think you're doing; skulking about middle of the night?”_

_Sherlock managed to “inadvertently” land his heel on John's foot as he turned; warding away the forthcoming response, as he allowed his Normal People Grin to slide across his face. Across from them stood a man improbably dressed in a wool suit, complete with waistcoat, and very obviously armed, though he'd yet to draw his weapon. _

“_Who, us?” Sherlock asked; adapting a bit of a nasal Cornwall twang. “Scott Wills and this is my mate, Jerry Watts,” John opened his mouth but Sherlock's heel made that same unfortunate contact with his foot, “Doesn't talk much, him.” _

_John, frowning a bit, glared his eyes towards his friend before nodding at the man across from them. “Uh, cheers,” he muttered. _

“_And you are?”_

_Ignoring the attempt at pleasantries, the suited man kept his hands straight on either side of his body. However, the spread of his feet and tilt of his head gave away a career far removed from the green hills of his current employ. Not military; no... something a bit higher on the chain of command. Government, that was a given; though which branch he'd been, or was currently affiliated, was harder to discern. There was something... “Mr. Jacoby.” The man finally allowed; though there was no invitation of familiarity. _

“_Mr. Jacoby; charmed! Well, Jerry and I were just out for a bit of a stroll. We're on holiday, you see, and wanted to take in the sights...” _

“_Sir, this is a car park.” _

_John cleared his throat for, perhaps, the fifth time but Sherlock overran whatever comments he was prepared to blunder his way through. “Well, if I must confess to a little Tomfoolery; Jerry and I may have had a nip more ale than was wise. Just a wee bit off our heads, we two! The barmaid told us all about the Banshee and we thought it a smashing idea to go have a poke around the village – see what we might stir up. Harmless fun, really.” _

_Not so much as a twitch, Jacoby looked down at them past the length of his nose. “You have ten seconds to vacate this lot before I forcefully remove you and, rest assured, if you cause any trouble I'll have no issue with tossing you both in the nearest lock-up till such time as I remember you're there.” His eyebrows went up; the first sign of emotion that he'd shown since appearing at their backs, “we clear on that, gents?”_

_John had spent much of that forty-five minute walk back to the Lodge silently fuming. Sherlock was amiable to his strop as it allowed him the required absence of inane chatter to process the tiny nudge that had pushed against his brain when he'd spoken with Jacoby. _

_It wasn't until John was fitting the key into his door whilst going on about needing a cuppa or perhaps a pint when the missing piece also slotted together in Sherlock's mind._

“_Oh!”_

_Whatever irritation John had been harboring, for far too long into their evening, melted away at that single exclamation. _

“_What? What did you think of? Are you actually planning to share this time or will I need to put you in an arm lock?”_

“_Oh don't be dramatic.” Sherlock was already punching the bloated face in his contacts; God save them if the bloody git could ever be arsed to text like a modern human. _

“_**I'm** being dramatic?” Filtered somewhere at his back – familiar grizzle, easily ignored._

_Three rings; there was some satisfaction in knowing he was being awoken from sleep; had he been in a meeting he'd have allowed it to go to voicemail. The roughened tone on the other end further affirmed Mycroft had been jolted awake and had no doubt clawed his way across his expansive mattress to grasp anxiously at his mobile. _

“_God, Sherlock, what is it this time? Merely a stint in the nick or is it something truly earth shattering; roaches in your tea, perhaps?”_

_While needling his odious brother was always a pleasant indulgence there simply wasn't time to parry. Sherlock was mostly confident that he'd kept his face enough in shadow to avoid any true recognition. However, he had no certainty that his nosing about wouldn't have raised enough alarm bells to set precautionary events into action. Thus his need to, regretfully, call in for tactical support; well knowing it would cost him down the line. _

“_Charles Tomlinson.”_

_The smug air vanished with the rough sounds of jostled bedding and the fumble of the light switch as Mycroft swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Where.”_

_John, intrigued, now, moved into Sherlock's eye-line as the younger Holmes detailed the previous hour; including the run-in with the now, known, man who had mildly threatened them. _

_The reply, afterwards, was concise. “I'll be there, with a team, in forty minutes.”_

_John raised an eyebrow. “So... who is Charles Tomlinson?”_

_Charles Tomlinson. M16 agent from 1970 to 1986 when he abruptly went rouge but not before releasing the names of 120 field agents to various news outlets and enemy powers. The internet was still in its infancy so, damaging as it had been, it could have been worse. These had been the early days of Mycroft's recruitment. Newly appointed with half a dozen field assignments under his belt, he had been the first to identify the critical failings of the M16 security system. He had spearheaded the restructuring of their security from the ground up. His early show of brilliance had made for a meteoric rise through the ranks and, ultimately, led to his current position. Mycroft couldn't share those details, of course, but Sherlock, during a fit of nosiness and pique, had dug through many of his brother's Top Secret files; uncovering a number of tidbits. The irony was that his meddling had led to even further restructuring; which had benefitted his brother and to which the gloating arse had never allowed him to forget. Obviously the bulk of those details Sherlock was restricted from sharing with John beyond the general scope of Tomlinson's misdeeds. _

“_After the release of names, Tomlinson escaped into Sweden. He was banned, by their government, so he retreated, first to France, and then into Australia where his trail went cold.”_

“_Until now.” John dropped down on the edge of his bed while Sherlock paced through the small room.”Okay, so, small village with no police presence and little to no tourism; that I can understand. But why come back to the UK? There are, easily, thousands of small towns both here as well as the Americas. Australia is positively choked with them. Plenty of locations for a man to lose himself if that's what he truly wanted.” _

_Sherlock tapped his thumbs against his lips; dismissing John's waffle. He had enough with just his own voice in his head he didn't need two. _

_With Sherlock not engaging and over half an hour before Mycroft would arrive with his contingent, John abandoned speculation for tea; setting a cup on the table near Sherlock's elbow once the brew was ready. _

_Pacing slowed with a hot beverage in hand; though Sherlock's thoughts remained at speed. As it was, there was no revelation to be had beyond a name and, to Sherlock's consternation, he was forced to await the arrival of his brother with no additional intel to provide him._

_Perfectly on time and lacking the polite pretense of knocking, Mycroft entered the room with two of his contingent at his back. While his security lingered at the door, Mycroft forewent his usual obnoxious mien in favor of expediency._

“_Where is he?”_

_Tomlinson had, indeed, been on the move. Escaping Ryder Lane with a single rucksack, he'd been caught by the other half of Mycroft's agents who'd been waiting just outside of the Bristol Airport. _

_Far less interested in the rouge agent as he was of the thing the man had been concealing, Sherlock darted inside with John somewhat further back at his heels. Empty flat after empty flat though no wonder. Hardly a game one could perform with witnesses. _

“_God, the smell...” John coughed into his sleeve. _

“_Aren't you a doctor of some sort? Wouldn't imagine this would be the worst thing you'd have smelled...” Sherlock leaned towards one of the doors; resting an ear against the wood before passing it by for the next flat._

“_Yeah, well, doesn't mean I suddenly think putrescence smells like a flower garden, ta.”_

_Sherlock stopped before the final flat; he and John both stilling at the vibrating **shift** coming from the other side._

_A low rumble followed and seemed to eat right through their bones._

_Sherlock, of course, had already begun slipping his tools into the keyhole. John, hanging back a step, fidgeted his fingers. “Perhaps we should let Mycroft's men go in ahead. They are, after all, armed.”_

_Ignoring the cautioning tone, Sherlock frowned as the lock proved somewhat more troublesome than he'd anticipated. “Steel reenforced door – interesting...” Then, with another twist, the lock gave. “Ha!” Sherlock twisted the knob, stepped back, and..._

_He blinked._

_Of course he'd suspected but the actual, physical appearance was..._

“_That... that is... an elephant.”_

“_Yes.” Sherlock was still blinking when the creature let out a shuddering trumpet._

_John remained a step back; stupefied. “An elephant. In a flat.”_

_Sherlock swallowed. “Yes, it would appear so.”_

_What happened next was likely the culmination of every wish, prayer, daydream, and spiteful hex he'd ever harbored from the earliest days of memory until that very moment. Mycroft, drawn by the, frankly, thunderous roar of the creature, had stepped away from his minders and walked rapidly in their direction. In that same moment, the elephant began to turn; tail twitching up in a decidedly alarming fashion. In a move that likely made the rugby player in John proud, Sherlock spun towards his friend and tackled him out of the way. In that same moment, Mycroft stepped into the doorway..._

Anthea screamed laughter into her sleeve to muffle the sounds; her eyes streaming and cheeks blossoming red. Sherlock grinned while she battled to control herself.

“Oh, God, how long did it take to get the stench out?” Equal parts appalled and amused, Anthea had, very clearly, heard not so much as a whisper of the events and no wonder. Mycroft had threatened imaginative amputation and, to top it off, had slapped the entire debacle with the Official Secrets Act.

“I assume a little over a week as he made an impromptu trip to Vienna shortly thereafter and was gone for eight days.”

Rubbing the wet from her lashes, Anthea chuckled. “Oh, I remember that! I was wondering why he'd sent a text rather than speak to me in person – it was so unlike him!” And then she frowned. Sherlock waited; very aware of the next line of questioning.

“Hold on... how, in God's name, did he get an elephant into a flat?”

_Once everything had been sorted; which had included a discrete wash up for certain older brothers, the truth was ultimately winnowed out. _

_It had all started with their disgraced spy._ _Tomlinson had moved back to England with falsified papers. Not for any nefarious purpose, rather, his mother was in ill health and as an only child, he'd felt duty bound to care for her. After her death he'd inherited the row of flats which she'd been managing for the previous 32 years. Where things became truly strange, though, had been the arrival of a rather spartan traveling circus to the tiny village. The master of ceremonies had been a Romanian man by the name of Andrei_ _Ardelean who, along with his wife, had managed a small collection of animals and performers. By the time they'd arrived in Brockley, they had been down to a few clowns, half a dozen dogs, and their one headliner – a female African elephant. The bull had died the year previous and the female had been in poor shape. They hadn't even known she'd been pregnant until Ardelean had gone to feed her, one morning, only to find a squalling calf and a dead mother. The circus had been essentially finished, at that point. Ardelean, however, had been reluctant to part with the calf. Sentiment. He'd used the last of his funds to purchase two adjacent flats and had moved himself, his wife, and the calf inside. Of course, the feeding and care of a young elephant would be a costly affair and without a circus there was no income. Ever an entrepreneur, Ardelean had hit upon a new way to make money. Elephant dung coffee. Apparently there was a tidy mint to be made in exotic brews. The money he made allowed him to care for the growing elephant for several years as well as reenforce the building structure. Tomlinson had been brought into the business early on – taking a cut in return for not reporting them for animal abuse. They couldn't have known that Tomlinson had his own reasons for wanting to duck the authorities. Ardelean had also spread the Banshee myth. He'd installed sound dampeners in the walls but they weren't enough to fully drown out the trumpeting so he'd created a mythical beast to hide the true creature behind the noise._

_Things had gone from bizarre to criminal, however, with the discovery of two bodies tucked away inside the walls of the “elephant flat”. They were eventually identified as the circus owner and his wife. Tomlinson hadn't been content to merely skim off the top of the “dung heap” any longer and had decided to take over the entire business. The catalyst had been Ardelean's research in the weeks leading up to his death. A look through his internet history had revealed the names of several elephant sanctuaries located within the UK. At some point, he must have expressed his intentions to Tomlinson and had been killed for it. _

“What happened to the elephant?”

Sherlock winced as he shifted his hands in his lap. “It was collected by Elephant Haven; a sanctuary in France. Mycroft's doing; I suspect he has an affinity.”

Anthea lightly smacked his arm and Sherlock grinned in response.

Behind them, Petia continued to sleep – having been undisturbed by their talking. Anthea brushed the tousled hair away from her forehead; her eyes worried. Ignoring Anthea's latent mothering, Sherlock shifted again but was incapable of finding a position that didn't involve branches nestled uncomfortably against his back.

As she was settling herself against the lumpy bedding, Anthea rested her hand on Sherlock's wrist; smiling once she had his attention. “It's midnight. I just realized...” She huffed out something like sad laughter. “Happy Christmas.”

Christmas. He hadn't known. Had Anthea remained awake beyond the seconds it had taken to speak he'd no doubt have articulated the nonsense of celebrating any day above any other; particularly in these circumstances. And... yet...

He remembered laughter. The scent of Mrs. Hudson's rum cake. John's ridiculous holiday jumper. The classic melodies played out on his violin. Lestrade's loud stories told through a whiskey haze. Molly's black dress and that silly silver bow.

“Happy Christmas,” he whispered back. Sighing, he settled in to wait out the remaining hours before Mycroft arrived. Surviving until then... that would be a suitable gift, as far as he was concerned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Incidentally, elephant dung coffee is a real thing. It's similar to It's similar to Kopi Luwak, the civet coffee where the beans are processed via the gut of the animal which strips the harsher acidic notes from the coffee. Not that I ever plan to drink it *shudder*
> 
> Another bit of trivia; the rouge agent I'd written about was based off of an actual rogue agent with the same last name who'd been operating in the 80s. In his case, however, he was ultimately exonerated.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rescue is on the way, but so is the enemy. With no options left, Sherlock is forced to take action. However, the consequences may prove to be disastrous.

Christmas Day. Instead of sitting next to his fireplace with a glass of his finest Scotch, as was his personal holiday tradition, here he was tramping through the snow like some character in a Jack London novel.

Mycroft had been in Antwerp when the urgent message had come through; passed along to him by one of the few agents he could bring into his confidence regarding Sherlock's movements. The man may be bed bound but that didn't thwart his ability to handle a laptop. His injuries and long-term recovery prospects had forced him out of the field. His previous work and proven reliability, however, made him invaluable to Mycroft as the risk of another mole within M16 remained high. With Anthea joining Sherlock on this mission, that left a vanishingly small number of people for whom he could place his full trust. Besides, Gabriel Austin himself had been vehement that he be allowed to continue assisting in any way possible and, truthfully, Mycroft owed the man a great debt.

“Buggar...” Grimacing at the deep, wet, and freezing muck that had spilled over the rim of his boot, Mycroft jerked his chin towards three of his team before proceeding into the rustic facility.

Dogs roared from their outdoor kennel; the cacophony bleeding through the walls. The men left guarding the rough complex had all been apprehended; though not without a few casualties; thankfully none of them Mycroft's people. Of Valery Kulikov there had been no sign.

A search of the rooms revealed a handful of potentially useful items. While anything electronic was in short shrift, outside of a large television in the den and a few music players, Mycroft found an older model laptop in the largest bedroom; no doubt Kulikov's. Handing it into the care of one of his agents for later study, he had just stepped back out into the yard when he was shouted towards the distant outbuildings barely visible through the heavy snowfall and vehicle headlights.

The double doors of the farthest building, some sort of storage shed, had been flung wide. Inside were a number of quad bikes and three sledges along with a row of cabinets taking up the length of one wall. Various other bits and bobs either hung from the walls or were tucked up among the rafters; everything smelled strongly of gasoline, dust, and animal droppings.

“Sir, over here.” The agent who'd called to him led Mycroft past the shed and towards a narrow track that led off into the forest. Already filling in with snow; though not as much as would have been expected had conditions been as bad, in the hours previous, as they were currently. Clearly there had been a break in the snowfall and a lucky break indeed given what his agents had discovered. Blood; just barely showing though the layer of white.

Mycroft straightened; squinting through the flakes batting against his eyes. “Leave a small contingent behind. The rest of you, with me.”

To the untrained eye Mycroft maintained an air of controlled urgency. After all, while valuable employees of M16 there was nothing personal in the recovery of these two agents. And it was imperative that it remain such. While Anthea was not unknown among his staff and various political affiliations it had been many years since she had worked in the field. Even if she were recognized, however, her involvement in this mission would be unremarkable given her skillsets. Sherlock was a different story. As it was, between the ever changing disguise and the designation of Agent Scott, they had both done all that they could to keep his identity a secret.

Heavy cloud cover was beginning to move in; bringing with it thickening snowfall. There was no time to spare if they were to reach Sherlock's location before their means of access was lost.

Entering the shed, Mycroft, along with six of his agents, confiscated the remaining quad bikes. With one bike ahead and two behind they roared down the fading tracks still visible under the thickening snow. And hoped to God they weren't too late.

Sherlock was awake in the moment between breaths; alert in that sense of something having triggered his senses. Anthea was sleeping the sleep of the heavily drugged but on her other side, eyes wide and afraid, Petia had pushed up on one elbow. Sherlock registered the light from a small torch too many sluggish seconds later and snatched it from her fingers with a wince of pain he couldn't suppress. The sudden black within the tent brought all other senses alive. The ragged and panicked breathing of Petia, the light scratch of a branch against the thin shell of the tent... And then he heard it; that sound that sent a prickle along his neck... the distant bark of a large dog.

Petia began to whimper but Sherlock pressed a hand over her mouth; holding it there until she quieted. Slow; aware that Anthea, too, had now awakened, Sherlock eased himself to his knees with liquid stealth. Reaching for Anthea's hand in the dark, he rapidly tapped out a message; only to have her roll her wrist to press her fingertips against his pulse in a furious reply. But there was no time for debate. And in a single word, he silenced all remaining objection.

_Petia_.

That she was unable to hold back a small gasp gave away as much as her silent argument. As it was, Mycroft's team had not come. There were no other options.

Still wearing their heavy parkas and huddled, as they were, they'd managed to keep warm enough to stave off freezing. This time, though, Sherlock forced the thick gloves over his fingers; swallowing at the roll of nausea as the burns roared to life. His broken fingers were swollen and gave him particular grief – no doubt some dislocation had occurred after all.

Reaching for Petia, once more, he was able to indicate his need for assistance by literally dragging her hand to the tent closure.

The sound of the zipper was horrifically loud. Sherlock hunched, all three of them stilled where they sat. Seconds dragged into a minute. Two. Feeling at his side for the torch, Sherlock clicked the beam and adjusted it to its lowest setting. The snow scattered the beam; making it useless for viewing farther than a few feet. However, Sherlock needed it mainly for avoidance of trees; though even that usage was limited. In his favor, however, the light would not carry far so the chances of being seen were minimal. Although... that was sort of the point.

No further barking could be heard. Where it had originated was impossible to determine. Risking his voice, Sherlock leaned in close towards the two women.

“Pile as many pine boughs over yourself as you are able. Do not move. Do not make a sound. Help will be here soon.”

“Lock...” Anthea's hand gripped his wrist and held tight. Sherlock allowed himself to be pulled back; close enough for her to press her forehead against his. “Please be safe, dear heart.”

With a stiff nod he gently extracted himself. Then, pulling his hood up around his ears, he left the tent.

Thirty seconds outside of the tent and Sherlock was lost in white. There was a weight to the silence that was oppressive. The reflection of the torch's beam against the snow was nearly blinding to senses that were still at war and he was forced to stop; eyes squeezing while he gulped and breathed through the pain in his skull. However, he couldn't remain there. Already he was losing the sense of his placement – all distinguishing landmarks wiped away and even their previous tracks were erased.

He remembered stories that had been told to him, as a boy, about early settlers in the American plains, being caught out during blizzards. Sometimes their bodies would be found within yards of their homes. Sometimes the bodies were not found until spring; if at all. What had fascinated, as a child, was a horrifying reality, now. It could well be his attempt at distraction would also lead to his death – either by his hunters or by a frozen tomb.

While he had everything against him the men searching for him were not so encumbered. Kulikov may be many things but he was also an expert marksman and tracker. It was not unreasonable to believe he could yet find their hiding place and he'd have had most of the night to do so. The amount of snow that had fallen proved that it must have tapered off significantly in the night; only picking up again within the past forty-five minutes to an hour. That Sherlock had heard barking meant they couldn't be far. He had to draw them off.

And somehow manage to not get shot in the process. His shoulder gave a twinge and he grimaced. Fine; not get shot _again_.

He may have been walking for an hour or as little as 15 minutes but tracking time was lost to him in the falling whiteness along with the watch that had been pocketed by Oleg. Movement helped to battle the freeze; though crystals of ice had begun to form on his eyebrows and the rim of fur on his parka. Worse, however, was the mild fog that kept blooming on his colored contacts no matter how often he rubbed his eyes. He was finally forced to stop and removed them – letting them drop into the snow before moving on. Of course, this also made the reflected brightness even worse with his pale irises now taking the brunt of the light. A heavy wind kicked up, suddenly, shaking the overburdened branches above and sending a deluge of snow over his head. With his hood snug about his face he'd at least managed to avoid any icy chills down his back – though some managed to get in his boots and dampen the socks all the way to the heel. It was little wonder he mistook the sound that followed, initially, for the groaning of tree branches.

It was ten seconds, too late, when he realized what he'd thought to be the creaking of pine boughs had been a soft, throaty, growl.

He lifted his head, eyes going wide, just as a dark form made of fur and teeth launched itself at his face.

Pain lanced through his forearm; brought across his body just in time to save his throat. The impact tumbled him backward into the snow and he immediately brought up his knees and kicked, hard. His left foot glanced off the beast's ribs but the right struck dead center and shoved the dog off his body; though not dislodging its teeth from his arm. Recovering itself rapidly, the dog growled and gave a vicious _jerk_ – tugging Sherlock forward and nearly throwing him face first into the ground. He pawed through the snow with his right hand; scrambling for anything; a rock or a branch... His fingers closed around something hard and substantial and he swung with it; catching the dog across the snout. While it snorted it didn't release its grip but, rather, seemed to _chew_ its way closer towards his elbow.

Striking repeatedly did nothing so Sherlock dropped the branch and grappled with the animal; digging his thumb into its eye. That had an effect as the dog yelped and dropped his arm. However it was short lived as it quickly lunged a second time; catching hold of his left thigh and clamping down; teeth sinking deep into the muscle. This was enough to pull a bellow from his lungs as their fight churned the snow like a crystal froth. Sherlock used both hands, this time, and again went for the eyes.

However, before he could do significant damage there was a sharp whistle followed by several shouts. The ears flicked back though the dog kept its hold. In seconds a figure stomped towards them and reached for the dog's collar.

“Vypusk! Son of a whore!” It took repeated commands and a sharp pull on the collar but, begrudgingly, the dog finally let go.

Panting where he lie in the snow, Sherlock kept his hand in front of his face a moment longer; the other braced behind him. Slowly he allowed it to drop – the bleeding limb held tight against his chest.

Kulikov grinned; bursting into a laugh as he was joined by Oleg. “He didn't think I could find you, Oleg. But nobody can escape Zuby, once he has your scent. It won't be long – he'll find your two friends as well. Though...” Kulikov scratched Zuby behind the ears; tipping down his head and looking up at Sherlock through his lashes, “I don't believe you will be alive to see them.”

Sherlock had been marched back to an encampment; limping badly on his savaged leg. The moment they stopped he allowed himself to sink to the ground; landing hard on his backside. His limbs shook from the cold that seemed to have burrowed through his veins. He recognized shock, though, knowledge did nothing for the symptoms.

The large fire set in the middle of the clearing cast heat in a wide radius and Sherlock nearly groaned as it washed across his stiff body. Oleg knelt across from him; his long blade in hand and tapping in the snow. The heavy fall had tapered during their march and had dwindled, now, to finer flakes that did little more than dust across the ground.

“You look like shit. You won't make a very pretty corpse, I'm afraid. Still, I think that is the point, yes?” He flashed a quick grin, chuckling, as he fished a cigar from an inner pocket. After lighting the one in his mouth he held out a second; eyebrows raised. Sherlock swallowed; fingertips throbbing. He carefully shook his head. Oleg laughed and returned the cigar to his pocket while sucking hard and making the tip of the lit cigar flare bright red.

“Don't be so afraid, súka. I have no need to play with you any longer. Kulikov has his own game already planned. It is a pretty good one, I think. Though you may not like.”

The crunch of snow preceded Kulikov's approach only minutes later – the large dog, thankfully, nowhere in sight.

“William! I am so glad you could join us, once again! We did not have a chance to finish our meal, the last time. Such a pity! By now you must be famished!” He roared laughter and then nodded to the men standing guard.

Sherlock grunted as two men grabbed him about the upper arms and dragged him to his feet; forcing his arms behind him and clamping manacles around his wrists, once more. His left thigh was a sheet of pain; his mauled arm an agony of shredded flesh, and he struggled awkwardly as he was marched to a large oak several yards from the bonfire. Turned so his back was against the rough bark, a long chain was looped around the trunk before being padlocked to the manacles. While he had some freedom of movement he was unable to sit with his arms bent behind him. As Oleg passed him by, the taller man grinned – reaching out to pat his cheek.

“This is going to be so much fun.”

Kneeling by the fire, Kulikov seemed to be fiddling with something out of sight; his back to Sherlock and blocking his activity. His voice, however, carried through the clearing.

“Peter the Great, emperor of Russia and its most celebrated ruler! The founder of Saint Petersburg; he was a modern thinker, for his time. He was fair and just and he was swift with carrying out justice; serving both as a punishment as well as warning.”

He stood, then, turning with a metal cup held in a pair of tongs with steam rising past the lip. “It isn't that way now. Now we cater to prisoners as though they have rights! Give them good food and good beds and exercise and sometimes even women! My dogs are not treated so well! Fah!” He sneered; walking forward slowly. “My Baba was right. Sometimes the old ways are best.” Kulikov looked beyond Sherlock's shoulders and gave a single nod. Hands wound around Sherlock's biceps as another set of hands twisted into his hair hard enough to trigger involuntary tears from the bright pain. His head was forced back and a hand snaked beneath his chin to dig forcefully into his jaw; the pressure wrenching open his mouth.

Approaching to within inches, Kulikov held up the steaming vessel. “In the old days, when a man was to be executed, there were many ways to carry out his punishment. Sometimes they were drowned. Sometimes burned alive,” he grinned, “which I considered. But there are wolves in the forest and I would not want to draw them in with screams and the smell of roasting meat.” He hefted the cup, once more; inhaling the steam. “Besides, this method is a personal favorite. I would prefer to carry out your punishment back at my base. However it is a long drive and we still have the women to locate.”

Sherlock's head was forced even further back – the tendons in his neck straining.

“I will tell you what this is, yes?” Kulikov moved close enough that Sherlock could smell the sour out-breath of coffee and sausage. “Molten lead. Gold would be more traditional but I would not waste something so precious on someone like you.” He tipped the vessel and a thin stream of dull bubbling grey spilled into the snow where it instantly hardened. Kulikov carefully knelt, grunting, to pluck the twisted shape from the melted patch of snow. He lifted it to Sherlock's eye line before pressing it against his cheek. Sherlock flinched at the heat but the snow had, thankfully, cooled it enough that it didn't scorch. “The boiling metal is poured into your throat. On its path to your belly it will char your tongue black, burn away the lining of your throat, and cause your organs to explode. That, however, is not what will kill you, no. No, it is when the metal hardens in your throat like a plug, leaving you choking for breath while your belly fills with blood. I have seen men take up to a minute to die, this way. Perhaps it sounds like not much time. But a minute, with your throat filled with searing metal and knowing you will never take another breath? That will, I think, be the longest minute you will ever know.”

Then Kulikov took a step back and lifted the cup to Sherlock's lips. Frantic, Sherlock twisted against the men holding him; gasping and letting out a terrified bleat as the cup tipped to his mouth.

Bellowing chaos erupted through the clearing. Kept somewhere out of sight, Zuby's early warning froze everyone who heard it.

Kulikov pulled the cup away as he turned; a globule of molten lead sliding over the rim and dripping into the snow. Baring his teeth, the large man threw aside the cup and took two strides away before whirling on Sherlock and backhanding him hard enough to spit his lips and set his eardrums ringing.

“Watch him! Or it is you who will choke on lead!” And then he gave a sharp whistle to several of his men and they ran into the thick trees on the opposite side of the clearing. Almost immediately there was an outburst of gunfire; mostly pistols but a smattering of automatic rifles as well. Sherlock could do nothing about his current circumstance but wait – hoping this was the rescue he'd requested and not some uprising amongst Kulikov's mercenaries.

At his side, the men left behind to guard him (really, where did they think he was going to go dragging a 35 foot oak?) seemed far more invested in the action just out of sight than the bleeding figure slumped between them.

One of them even took two steps before his partner slapped at his arm. “Idiot! You think he was bluffing? He'll have both our heads!”

No sooner speaking than a much closer blat of gunfire shattered through the clearing – both men jerked; one reflexively squeezing the trigger of his soviet era sub-machine gun and firing a streak of bullets into the snow before collapsing at Sherlock's feet.

A moment passed, two, before a figure in white and grey camouflage darted from the treeline and made for Sherlock's position. With one hand he carefully tipped up Sherlock's head while using the other to operate his radio.

“Agent Mullan; I have made contact with the target. We are approximately 150 meters Southeast of the quads. I require backup for extraction...” the agent spun before he could finish his sentence and stiffened; taking two rough steps backward to collide against Sherlock's chest and crushed him against the tree The rough bark tore his hands and he couldn't stop the sound that squeezed past his teeth.

In a slow descent, the agent collapsed to his knees – revealing the figure facing him. Oleg tugged sharply at the long blade buried in Agent Mullan's chest; the release of the dagger leaving the other man gasping with the audible wheeze of a punctured lung. Kicking the man out of his way, Oleg staggered close; grinning. There was blood on his teeth. Feeling slow and stupid, Sherlock, only then, noted the bullet wound in Oleg's abdomen. The man saw the direction of his gaze and laughed – coughing as a trickle of blood slid down his chin.

“Yes, probably I will die. Big relief for you, yeah?” Sidling even closer, Oleg leaned most of his weight against Sherlock's chest; his other hand rising to rest the blade at the base of Sherlock's throat. “I think, though... you will not outlive me. No, súka... there will be no salvation for you.” Then, stepping back, he gripped a handful of Sherlock's hair and slid the blade across his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry! CLIFFHANGER!!!!!!!!!! This was meant to be the last chapter but it sorta got away from me. Instead, the final scene will be in the next update. Stay tuned! I will post the final chapter as soon as I'm able to get it together!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the beginning of the end.
> 
> Mycroft remembers.
> 
> Blood and ash mingle in the snow.
> 
> All too soon they are forced to move on.

_ **Surrey - July 26, 1989** _

_Mummy had been waiting for him at the station when Mycroft had disembarked from the train, luggage in hand. It was the start of the summer holiday and he had two months before he would need to return to Cambridge for the start of the Fall term. Expecting his baby brother to be occupying the front passenger seat, Mycroft had felt a mild thread of disappointment to find the car empty._

_Placing his bag in the boot, he'd settled alongside his mother as she'd started the car – the elderly hatchback, in spite of its visual failings, had been kept in perfect condition due to father's obsessive tinkering with the aging vehicle; much to Mummy's consternation as she often bemoaned the “Great Green Yacht”._

“_How was the train, darling? Father was sorry he couldn't meet you, as well, but you know he had to travel to Gothenburg on Sunday and won't be back until quite late tomorrow evening.”_

_Enduring the meandering stream of conscious, as was his mother's typical mode of conversation, it was alarming when, a few miles outside of Surrey, she pulled the car over to the shoulder and turned off the engine._

_Eyebrows lifted in concern, he turned towards her only to experience a fissure of horror at the tears starting to glide down her cheeks. _

“_Mummy?”_

_She dabbed at the moisture with her handkerchief and made a visible effort to calm herself. Mycroft swallowed._

“_Something has happened to Sherlock.” Nothing short of terror roared through his veins to the point he felt a finger of cold trace down the base of his throat. It began to elevate into true panic when she pressed a hand over her lips._

_Turning towards him she took in his face and immediately reached for him. “Oh, Myc, it isn't like that! Lockie is alright. He is unharmed.”_

_He may have taken his first full breath, then, since she'd pulled the vehicle over. It had only been a few months since the terrible incident with Abel. Sherlock still woke, many nights, from awful dreams that would often haunt the house with his screams. He bit down on the urgency that wanted to press her for whatever had taken place. However, he also knew that doing so would only extend the time it took for her to share. So he waited; fingers clenched in his lap._

“_You know your cousin, Hilaire, is staying in London over the summer.”_

_Mycroft only waited and his response hadn't been warranted either way as his mother merely continued on with what would likely be a fairly involved story. _

“_Apparently he has friends living in the city. Well, of course, after everything that happened this spring...” she wiped her eyes, once more, before taking a large breath. “We thought it would do Sherlock some good to get away for a few days. He's always loved the city so! And it seemed to be helping. He was thrilled to be there, oh, you should have seen how his face lit up. Chattered away about every building we passed; how he keeps so much information in his head, I'll never know. The following day Hilaire asked if they could go swimming. He had never been a very strong swimmer, that boy. He can never seem to get his coordination quite right. Sherlock didn't want to go but Hilaire insisted and I thought...” her face crumpled, again, and for a moment Mycroft feared she would utterly fall apart. However, after a few more deep breaths his mother rallied and blinked damp eyes._

“_There was an... Incident, while they were at the pool. A boy drowned.”_

_Mycroft frowned. “Did Sherlock know this boy?”_

“_That isn't the point, Myc!” Mycroft understood that he'd overstepped, somehow. However, he also knew that, in dealing with his mother, silence was often his best recourse. And thus he remained until she calmed enough to continue._

“_No, he didn't know him. He was so upset!”_

_Mycroft's eyebrows went up. That didn't sound like Sherlock. “Did he see it happen?”_

_His mother shook her head. “That wasn't what he was upset about. He kept insisting that it wasn't a drowning. Demanded to talk to someone at the police department but of course they weren't interested in what he had to say.” Turning the key in the ignition, Mummy started the car and eased back onto the road. “He's been in a strop ever since. I told him you'd talk to him once we got back home.”_

_Mycroft sighed and sank back into his seat. Of course._

_Depositing his bag in his room, Mycroft headed back downstairs, tolerating a pat on the cheek from his mother along with a slightly more welcome announcement that she'd have a late lunch ready in twenty minutes, before moving to the back garden. Sherlock, naturally, was easily found in the usual place._

_He saw the dark, curly head just scarcely peeping above the edge of the long bench at the secluded corner of the garden long ago dubbed “Sherlock's Thotful Spot” complete with hand painted sign. Wandering around to the front he brushed a hand across the faded wood before taking a seat alongside his brother, who had slumped low with his arms tight across his chest._

“_I understand you had an eventful day in London”_

_Huffing, Sherlock pulled himself even more tightly together. “You don't understand anything! Mummy told you!” He kicked out one foot angrily. “Nobody understands anything.”_

_Ignoring the petulant funk, Mycroft chose to watch several wrens hopping amongst the thistle and last year's leaf litter. Sherlock could spent hours in this way; escaping even the mellow chaos of the house amongst the trees and wildlife. As it had done before, simply allowing him his peace worked far better than a demanding interrogation._

“_They didn't listen to me. They treated me like a stupid child!”_

_Mycroft bit off the impulse to comment upon the obvious. Sherlock, however, saw right through his attempt at delicacy._

“_Oh shut up!” Surging to his feet, frightening the wrens that took to the sky in a flurry, Sherlock stomped through the grass before the bench. “I'm practically a teenager and I'm certainly smarter than any of them! But they acted as though I were a baby! One of them even patted me on the head!” Cheeks blazing pink, Sherlock punctuated his fury by kicking a small hillock of earth and grass. Panting, he threw himself back on the bench and crossed his arms tightly once again. Angry tears were withheld by the barest tensile strength of his lower lashes. Without a word, Mycroft handed across his handkerchief, which Sherlock used to inelegantly scrub at his face before purposefully blowing his nose. _

_Sighing, Mycroft waited, again, for Sherlock to calm. With peace restored, the wrens returned and resumed their foraging. In the shift of the breeze, Mycroft noted the scents of woodsmoke and vegetable soup. _

“_You will find, I'm afraid, that your intelligence will not always mean that others will respect your position.”_

_That there wasn't an immediate backlash was a sure sign that Sherlock was listening._

“_It isn't enough to be smart in what you know. You must also be smart in how you present it. You want someone to hear you? Give them a reason to listen. You are brilliant; and you will always be smarter than most of the people you come across throughout your life. Barring myself, of course.” _

_With no reply forthcoming, other than a token glare, Mycroft stood. “Make them hear you. Certainly someone with your intelligence can find a way to do so.” _

_Squinting up at the darkening clouds, Mycroft held out a hand towards the boy. “I believe Mummy has lunch ready and it looks as though it may rain. We should...”_

“_Myc...?”_

_He looked back down at his little brother; whose face had lost its rage and, instead, appeared deep in thought._

“_Thank you.”_

Mycroft stepped around the body of the large dog. Not far beyond it, Kulikov had been subdued; the large Russian cursing and sobbing in rage by turns.

With two of his people flanking him, he continued towards the light of a large fire that cast long orange fingers through the snow. Impossible to make out anything other than the brightness, in the dark, he had his two agents flank either side of the clearing while he continued forward.

Suddenly there was gunfire, followed by the call from Agent Mullan moments afterward reporting Sherlock found. Still cautious, though quickening his steps, Mycroft hadn't managed 5 feet before two more gunshots, a pistol this time, shattered through the clearing. He was running even as the next call came over the line.

“I have an agent down! Target is severely injured! I need backup immediately!” The call repeated twice more as Mycroft finally reached the clearing; scanning for hostiles before racing to the figures on the farthest edge of the space. He saw his agents first; Mullan on the ground surrounded by a wide stain of red while his partner had both hands plastered over the wound in his chest. Another man, a long dagger flung several feet away from the tips of his fingers, lie dead at the base of a large tree. And then he saw Sherlock.

He couldn't quite recall the moment between seeing the blood on his brother's throat and having his hands sealed over the wound. He must have stripped his gloves while racing to the tree because his pale fingers took his attention, for a second, before red began to stain his flesh.

Sherlock blinked heavily as Mycroft bore down on the gash. His chin dipped before he caught himself; squinting with bleary eyes at his brother.

“...M...'croff...?” He swallowed; his body sinking a bit more against the restraints still binding him to the tree. “Tired...”

“Everything will be alright, brother mine,” Mycroft whispered. “I need you to stay awake a little while longer. Just a while longer, can you do that for me?” The skin beneath his hand was icy cold and slick as blood continued to seep past his fingers. There was no answer forthcoming but Sherlock was very clearly trying – pulling on reserves as he inhaled and blinked rapidly.

More agents were in the clearing, now, shining their torches on the grisly tableau. Several went to the aid of agent Mullan while others gathered around Mycroft and “agent Scott”. Despite his best efforts Sherlock had begun to slump, once more, and one of the men had to act fast and essentially wrap him in a bear hug; head ducked to the side while Mycroft scrambled to keep pressure on Sherlock's throat. It was at that point someone produced a set of heavy keys and, after a bit of shifting at Sherlock's back, managed to unlock the manacles.

Sherlock would have fallen had the agent not been holding him up. As it was, the man staggered until another set of hands came to his aid. Very gently, very carefully, they eased Sherlock down to the ground. By this point the last of Kulikov's men had been reported either captured or killed.

“Sir, we've located the other missing agent as well as a civilian. They were in a tent about half a kilometer west of here.”

“Condition?” Sherlock's skin was clammy beneath his numbing fingers.

“Alive. Agent Holder has a bullet wound to the left thigh and both she and the civilian are suffering from mild exposure but otherwise appear stable. They're being extracted now.”

Mycroft gave a sharp nod. “ETA on air support?”

“Helicopters are en-route and will be here in five minutes.” It was then that Sherlock's body jerked; his mouth gaping wide as he sucked in a ragged gasp. Startled, Mycroft began to lean back when one of the agents, who'd been busy with Sherlock's other wounds, grabbed his wrist and forced his hands back, hard, against the bleeding gash.

“Do not let up! Even if he's struggling to breathe. You're the only one keeping him from bleeding to death.”

Sherlock gaped again, his lips starting to go blue, but Mycroft continued to bear down while letting a string of apologies scroll through his head. Wars were won and lost before, finally, the call came through that the helicopters had landed in a clearing 30 feet through the trees. Two minutes later, a team arrived on scene, carrying with two portable gurneys. One group gathered near agent Mullan while the rest surrounded Mycroft. With fluid precision, they were able to slide Sherlock onboard the gurney, keeping Mycroft's hands firmly in place, and get them all to their feet and racing towards the far clearing. The blades of the helicopters whirred silently. Agent Mullan had been loaded aboard one along with Anthea and a girl Mycroft didn't recognize. Meanwhile, he and Sherlock were hustled to the remaining helicopter.

Mycroft was quickly instructed to keep his hands in place; dashing the hope that they'd be able to treat his brother en-route. Though the blood loss had slowed it was still seeping around his fingers, leaving half moons of bright red at the bed of every cuticle, crawling along Sherlock's jaw, and soaking into his hair...

The flight to the hospital was a lifetime of terror.

Sherlock's O2 stats continued to drop, in spite of the supplemental oxygen, and just before touchdown they started discussing a tracheotomy.

There was another surge of cold fear, after the jog into the building, from the helicopter pad, but before the surgery bay, when it was time for Mycroft to remove his hands. He found, to his horror, that he couldn't move. _You're the only one keeping him alive... _ The warning hammered through his head – sealing him in place just as surely as though he'd been stuck there with glue.

“Sir, you need to let go. We need to get this man into surgery. Sir...?”

Fog began to peel back, then; in time for Mycroft to note the hands working to pry him free – other hands sliding beneath his palms to take over this critical duty.

And then Sherlock was gone – taken down the hall beyond the slowly closing double doors. Out of his care.

There was an indistinct measure of time, then. One of the moments retained involved standing before a sink, jumper sleeves shoved to his elbows, while one of his men scrubbed congealed blood from his fingers. There was little that could be done about the drying red on his clothes; though most could be hidden beneath a suit jacket. He needed to remember to send someone to fetch his travel bag.

There was a well stocked cafe sharing the same floor as the surgery. Mycroft had been seated at a small table, his personal security lingering at the nearby coffee bar, when he'd received the news about agent Mullan. He hadn't survived.

Another moment found Mycroft in a private waiting room; his security just outside the door. He'd held his mobile in hand for many minutes, agonized at the prospect of keeping Sherlock's fate from their parents. But... they had agreed to the restrictions put in place. After five minutes, Mycroft tucked the mobile back into his inner pocket.

Dawn was a slow bloom of pink and gold when next Mycroft took in his surroundings; standing before the one window facing out over the vast property behind the hospital. There were deer feeding among the trees.

Some time after this, he spoke with the nurse assigned to update him on the surgeon's progress. Injuries he had not, previously, known about were detailed in matter-of-fact tones which were a balm in their familiarity. He had only given the barest attention to Sherlock's other injuries – his focus the gash to his brother's throat and the blood spilling down his neck. He said nothing as he learned of the brutality visited upon his brother's body; the burns; the dog bites...

After the second hour, Mycroft had relocated from the private waiting room to Anthea's recovery suite. She had still been hazy but not such that she couldn't ask about Sherlock; her face going ashen when she'd noted the blood staining the cuffs of Mycroft's jumper a dull reddish-brown. Cautious, even now, about security, they had maintained Sherlock's cover as agent William Scott during the course of their conversation.

By the time Sherlock was out of surgery, some 5 hours in total, Anthea had been asleep, once more, so Mycroft had left her to walk across the hall. From prior experience, he knew Sherlock's recovery from the anesthesia could be... unpleasant.

Sherlock would likely sleep for the remainder of the night, such as it was, with both lingering anesthesia and morphine onboard. Features, normally pale, were positively grey, with deep shadows in the hollows of his eyes. Bare chested, his skin was dotted with circular patches attaching him to the various monitors clustered around the head of the cot. Mycroft went to each one, muting the sounds and dimming lights. He had made it a point to speak with the nursing staff, about the needs of this particular patient, though it appeared another conversation may be in order. Still standing over the bed, he noted the stained gauze covering some of the burns, particularly across Sherlock's chest, which had been seeping upon arrival. Three fingers were likewise bandaged, two of them splinted, whereas the remaining burns had been left uncovered and coated in salve across the furious red blisters. Both his left arm and left thigh had sustained deep puncture wounds; the latter fixed with a drain beneath the layers of bandaging.

His throat...

They had been forced to place the tracheotomy tube which had been discussed earlier. The opening jutted from his throat like some alien thing; attached to the vent that pumped steady oxygen into his lungs. Mycroft had been assured that it was merely temporary until the damage to his throat healed enough for its removal. His brother had avoided death by centimeters; his outer jugular partially severed whereas the carotid artery had been missed by less than half an inch. Had that been cut, Sherlock would have been dead before Mycroft could have reached the tree.

Mycroft trailed his hand along the railing as he finally gave into exhaustion and sat heavily in the padded chair provided. He truly didn't expect to sleep, however, with his thoughts laying about in such disordered fashion. So, of course, it came as a minor shock to jolt awake, perplexed at the bright light streaming from wide open curtains, to his brother grasping everything within reach and throwing it across the room; his mouth open in a silent scream.

Anthea had been provided a wheelchair; of which she'd wasted no time in transferring her still aching form. Like hell she'd remain there after the uproar that morning. She'd been able to hear Sherlock's meltdown clear across the hall. Petia, sweet child, hadn't so much as stirred an eyelash from her own cot on the opposite side. Leaving the girl in the care of one of the agents standing watch, Anthea had swatted aside aid and quietly rolled herself through the door and across the white and gleaming span to the closed room on the other side.

Sherlock was no longer demolishing his room and she could hear a soft voice through the door. A gentle rap of knuckles gained her entry and, this time, she accepted the help of the agent who pushed her to the side of the bed across from her boss. Mycroft had lifted his eyes at her arrival, though had since returned his attention to the man in the bed. Sherlock... Sherlock was shaking. Eyes closed and lips drawn a thin line while his fingers worked stiffly at his sides. Mycroft was running one hand along the fringe of product stiffened hair laid across Sherlock's forehead. The words Mycroft spoke were likely pulled from their shared childhood – soothing and mostly nonsense – mostly French though a bit of English popped up now and then. She, of course, had seen this before. Sherlock's life had not been all easy roads and while he may have come from privilege it hadn't prevented more than his share of traumas. More than once Anthea had sat alongside her employer while he'd held his brother through seemingly endless withdrawals. Sighing, she took one of Sherlock's hands, feeling the rough texture of cracked skin and wary of the terrible burns, she ran her thumb in a familiar circular pattern over his knuckles.

And thus they sat, the three of them; Mycroft soothing, Anthea comforting, and Sherlock trembling between them.

When Sherlock was finally asleep, once more, Mycroft rose to stand near Anthea's side. “Can I send for something? Breakfast perhaps?”

Anthea grimaced and rubbed a hand across her abdomen. “Tea?”

A single dip of his head and Mycroft spoke softly to one of his men just outside the door. In no time at all he returned; two mugs of tea and a plate of fruit and two raspberry scones. Anthea sipped her tea while Mycroft broke open one of the scones to nibble the edge. Neither one of them spoke for some time. Finally, however, Anthea broke down and claimed the other scone; taking a small bite of the crumbling point. It was very good, of course, and she said as much. They finished their spartan breakfast; Mycroft again taking up the tray to set it on the counter near the door. Then he returned – though he didn't sit – eyes towards the narrow strip of lights filtering past the pulled shades on the window.

“The girl, Petia. We were able to locate her parents. The live in a small flat in Izvor. Two years ago she, along with several of her classmates, had been abducted during a school trip. Their driver had been killed along with three students.”

“Have any of the other students been found?” Anthea rolled a stray grape, left behind on the tray table, beneath one fingertip.

Mycroft tapped the fingers of one hand against his knuckles. “No.”

Folding the grape up inside a serviette, Anthea rubbed at the minor sting, on her arm, where the IV had been inserted. “Does she know?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow before turning his attention back her way. “About her parents or her classmates?”

Shrugging, Anthea dropped both hands to her lap. “Both, I suppose.”

“Not that I am aware. I presume she will be informed about all pertinent matters sometime tomorrow morning.”

Anthea nodded. “I hope...” she trailed off; uncertain as to what it was she wanted to say, finally continuing with another shrug, “that they love her.”

For his part, Mycroft had since resumed his vigil over his brother; his voice scarcely carrying. “Quite.”

Sherlock spent a total of 12 days in hospital; his tracheotomy tube removed after the first 7. After he'd recovered sufficiently, he was transferred to an M16 safehouse in Sofia.

While still hobbling about on crutches, Anthea had been adamant about staying with him while he finished his recovery; though he'd spent a good deal of it grizzling about her limited mobility.

“Is there a reason I'm required fetch your slippers? It isn't as though you've risen from that couch for the past three days.”

Eyebrow arched, Anthea had merely grinned at his whinging pout. “Well I do need to pee, now and then, don't I?”

As it was, her own healing had been well on its way after two weeks and she'd been able to dispense with the crutches; though had been warned that full healing would require upwards to 3 months.

It took a little over 3 weeks for the burns to fully heal on Sherlock's hands and chest; with Anthea changing his bandages and applying salve regularly. The scars that resulted had at least one benefit; he no longer had fingerprints. The fingers on both hands were now tipped with fading ridged, pink flesh – utterly devoid of any identifying features. He was a ghost.

On the final day of the month, once Sherlock had been cleared, Mycroft arrived to collect Anthea.

She had been weeping; sometime before dawn and wanting to hide it given the artful application of make up and overt brightness of mood. It was time for Sherlock to go on to his next assignment. Alone.

A separate car was waiting to take Sherlock to the airport. Anthea had insisted on cooking them all a late breakfast, of scrambled eggs and French toast, while two of Mycroft's people had carried the various luggage down to the cars.

Sherlock, of course, had picked at the food and then, only, because Anthea had insisted that he eat. Both Mycroft and Anthea had eaten a small plate though it was clear that nobody had an appetite.

And then it was time to go.

There were no tears nor melodrama. If Mycroft had held onto Sherlock's hand just a bit longer than was customary, neither of them spoke of it. Anthea had hugged him tightly. With Sherlock's lips near her ears he had given his single order – in a tone that brokered no debate.

“Watch John. Keep him safe. Please...”

Resting her hand against his cheek, as he drew away, Anthea nodded and smiled. “Of course I will.”

And... then he was gone.

The security team returned, soon after, to escort the two of them down to the remaining car.

There were no words, between them, until the door shut and the privacy screen was put in place. And then, Anthea allowed the tears to finally fall.

“He shouldn't have to go on alone. I was supposed to be there for him.” Handkerchief pressed against her eyes, her grief demanded silence while she fought for her dwindling composure. In that time, in-between, Mycroft told her a story. About a fierce young boy, with an iron will for doing what must be done, even when his was the only voice screaming into the dark.

“Sherlock must finish this. For him, there is no other option. You could sooner turn back the tide with your fingers as dissuade my brother from whatever mission he has chosen. And, you know this.”

Down to just stray tears; easily mopped up by her sodden handkerchief, Anthea nodded. “And yet, I still find that I have let him down.”

It was then that Mycroft took both of her hands and squeezed her fingers just enough to lift her eyes.

“My Dear, you have nothing with which to feel ashamed. You were able to be there for him in a way that I could not. For that, I am forever indebted to you.”

Freeing one hand to wipe the edge across her cheek, Anthea shuddered a breath. “Thank you.”

Turning face forward, then; Mycroft allowing her a moment to correct her smudged make up and Anthea shaking off the last of her visible sadness, they gathered back the tatters of British Government and quiet assistant.

“So, where is his next assignment?” Anthea retrieved her mobile from the small bag of “personal items” her employer had provided weeks earlier.

Mycroft, eyes casually watching the city sweep past beyond the tinted windows, responded with an equally level tone. “Budapest. There's word of another drug ring – this one involving human slavery.”

Tapping a bit longer, eyes never leaving her screen, Anthea gave a small nod. “He'll be okay.”

Not looking her way; eyes fixed on the rounded domes of the St. Alexander Nevsky Cathedral as they passed it by, Mycroft blinked rapidly. “One can only hope... and pray.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did it!! This took longer than expected but was such a fun ride! All of the biggest kudos to sgam76 and her amazing series, Scheherezade 'verse, without-which my little story would never have been written.


End file.
